


stalemate

by CopperCaravan



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Cait's personal quest, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Nuka World, Other, semi-graphic violence and character death, synth monroe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 07:49:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10355604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: Sometimes the Institute fucks up and sometimes the Institute Really Fucks Up. Designation E4-67 was supposed to be a Diamond City infiltration unit. That didn't work out like they planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I try to write stuff and I can't so I get really mad and write something else and that's this. Also Monroe's my angry nonbinary synth child and the Courser in this fic is not X6 bc he's perfect and nothing bad ever happens to him.

The trick to it is that Monroe knows.

 

**===**

 

Designation E4-67 was a generation 3 synth. Designation E4-67 worked in the Bioscience division, assisting with food production and just generally doing whatever the hell it was told. Designation E4-67 was killed, bleached from the inside out, and replaced by a woman named Anne Lynne.

Anne Lynne remembers growing up somewhere—not the Commonwealth, but something like it. Anne Lynne’s father was a gambling drunk who damn near sold her off to a whorehouse in a game of poker, lost his house instead, and then meant to sell her off to some well-to-do piece of shit man farther south. Anne Lynne ran off. Anne Lynne was supposed to wake up, like she remembered having done every morning before, outside Boston and head to Diamond City. Apparently, Anne Lynne heard about the town from some traders and Diamond City’s just the sort of place Anne Lynne would go.

But Anne Lynne doesn’t just remember her drunk daddy or the shoddy little shack they lived in. Anne Lynne remembers Designation E4-67.

 

**===**

 

Monroe. It’s one of those fake memories—the mother’s maiden name, maybe? Hard to keep track of which memory is whose. Hard to be three people at once, if Monroe is really people at all—Anne Lynne was never real, not like Designation E4-67 was, anyway. But now, there’s just Monroe.

Monroe is a synth. But Monroe is no one’s property, no one’s puppet. Monroe is _pissed._

 

**===**

 

Monroe can’t fight. The Institute doesn’t let synths fight, doesn’t teach them anything useful unless they’re infiltration or retention and Designation E4-67 wasn’t either of those things. Anne Lynne was but truth be told, that fool girl would’ve died out here.

So Monroe can’t fight, but they’re gonna learn.

 

**===**

 

It starts with stealing. Stealth. Subtlety. First food, then weapons, then caps. It starts with not getting caught.

Then it’s getting caught. It’s scrappy fights and learning to bind their own wounds and gritting their teeth when a bullet grazes their leg because if they stop running, it’s all over. It’s flipping off every camera, every infiltrator, every bird they see because the Institute is watching. Always watching. And they know Monroe knows.

Then it’s not getting caught because necks are snapped and shots are fired before the stealing even starts. One, two, three, doesn’t matter how many—they’re dead and Monroe’s not and that’s how it works out here. No apologies. No guilt. The Wasteland won’t kill Monroe. The Institute won’t kill Monroe.

 

**===**

 

Then it starts to grate and grind. Where’s the Coursers? _Where’s the goddamned Coursers?_

They always send the Coursers, even after good-for-nothing synths that don’t spit at every mention of the Institute. They send Coursers after synths that go rogue and synths that are too stupid not to; they send Coursers after synths that don’t know they’re synths and people who actually fucking aren’t. So where’s the goddamned Coursers?

They ain’t gonna junk Monroe, damn it. They ain’t gonna pretend Designation E4-67 is an acceptable loss. The Institute’s gonna try to get it back and Monroe’s gonna fucking _show them._ Monroe’s gonna kill every Courser they send. And they _are_ gonna send some. If they don’t, Monroe’s gonna make ‘em.

 

**===**

 

The Combat Zone is not a home but Monroe’s never wanted a home and that’s not changing. This isn’t about _home_ or _family_ or _warm fuzzy feelings._ It’s about fighting.

And fighting isn’t just about kicking ass, it’s about something deeper.

Tommy has Monroe go up against some scrawny little punk who goes down fast but don’t weigh enough to go down hard. Monroe’s not sorry when they kill the kid—kid woulda killed them if he could have.

Then it’s just one raider after another because the cheap bastard don’t wanna risk his little bird. It’s not jealousy that drives Monroe harder and harder in the ring. It’s something else, just... Monroe doesn’t have a word for it, not yet.

Cait drinks with them after the shows and Monroe watches her shove needles into the bend of her arm. She offers them a hit every so often but Monroe always shakes their head and tips up their beer—they’ve seen how Cait can get on the shit and Monroe’s never gonna lose control like that. Control is _everything._

Tommy starts letting the two of them tag-team, calls them the Dynamite Duo. The raiders like that.

 

**===**

 

Monroe likes hand-to-hand best, but they ain’t opposed to ending a match with a pool cue or a broken bottle or a wrench tossed into the ring when the raiders get bored.

When they find out Tommy’s been selling info to the Institute, that’s how it goes.

It would’ve happened anyway, truth be told: Caity was getting lost in all this shit. Between the drinks and the drugs and the dumbasses that make up their audience, it was only a matter of time til Caity hit the floor. Monroe knew it, Tommy knew it, Cait knew it. But nobody stopped it because as much as Tommy likes to pretend he’s in charge, he ain’t. He doesn’t have control of the Combat Zone, or of the raiders, or of the drugs, which means he doesn’t have control of Cait either.

And that’s what this is all about—the fighting, the Wasteland, Monroe: it’s all about control. It’s all about every motherfucker knowing they can’t fuck with Monroe, they can’t beat Monroe, they can’t kill Monroe. They can’t control Monroe.

So Monroe waits til Tommy’s out back meeting with his Institute runner and they break a bottle against a table and they walk outside and kill him.

It’s not that quick—busted bottles are messy weapons—but it gets done. And Monroe tells the Gen 2 to tell the SRB, to tell Ayo, to tell _Father_ that they can get fucked.

“I’m right here. Come get me.”

It’s time to make a point.

 

**===**

 

Hell if either of them knows where they’re going, but they’re going _somewhere._

For a few days, they hole up in an old apartment building. It’s kinda nice, if anything can really be “nice.” But it gets stale pretty quick. Once they clean it out, there’s nothing much to do besides scavenge and keep watch for a fight that never comes.

That’s not what Monroe’s gonna settle for. No sense in waiting around in some shithole for some bigger asshole to come run them out of it. So they pack up and head to Goodneighbor for a while. They stop running jobs for Hancock when they almost get their guts painted on a wall. They stop running jobs for Bobbi when they kill her for being a lying piece of shit. They stop running jobs for Morowski when he doesn’t fucking pay up. A bunch of Morowski’s men stop running jobs for him too, because when he doesn’t fucking pay up, they kill those men. And leave him a note.

When the money dries up, they move on. Monroe’s not looking for _home;_ Monroe’s looking for something... else. And Cait’s happy enough to go along with it, for now anyway. Monroe’s not sure if their regular supply of psycho helps or hurts. Ain’t that they care if Caity wants a hit, but Monroe knows—Designation E4-67 knew, Anne Lynne knew—that either you’re _in_ control or you _are_ controlled. And Caity ain’t in control no more.

 

**===**

 

Don’t take an idiot to know that there’s no way some pre-war fucking _theme park_ ain’t full of shit. The only question is if it’s tame shit or wild shit. Tame shit’s gonna be a bunch of dumbass settlers—or gunners probably—thinking they can lure in more dumbass settlers. It’s the wild shit that might be tricky—deathclaws or yao guai or whatever the fuck else this place has hiding in its bowels.

People are stupid enough to think they’re smart; that’s what makes them easy to kill.

 

**===**

 

Tame raiders who think they’re wild dogs. Go figure.

The only surprise is that they were smart enough to build the maze in the first place.

 

**===**

 

Once it’s done, Monroe figures they could’ve won with that stupid little squirt gun, but when it comes right down to it, they don’t wanna be in the debt of some dumbass with an eye patch and a mohawk. And the hammer was more fun.

 

**===**

 

Caity doesn’t _hate_ it, but she doesn’t much like it either. Still, if Monroe can get the hooks into these people, there’s no losing.

Clearing the park with Gage ain’t hard—or not as hard as these painted up pansies seem to think it is.

The robots are a pain in the ass but if you shoot ‘em enough, they shut the fuck up like anything else.

It’s not that Monroe’s _tired_ exactly. But it is kinda nice to have an overstuffed chair to slump into after coming in covered in swamp goo. Kinda nice to tell Gage to get the fuck out of their new digs too. He can shower somewhere else.

“There’s a fountain in the courtyard, right?”

Cait laughs and Monroe decides today’s not the day to mention the used syringe on the table.

 

**===**

 

Nevermind. Clearing that damn kiddie park is a fucking nightmare and if Monroe gets their hands around that clown bastard’s throat...

The radiation doesn’t get at them the way it would get at Cait, the way it gets at Gage. Probably got something to do with being a gen 3, _mankind redefined_ and all that. No reason to tell Gage and Caity though. Still, when Gage starts puking more than he’s walking, Monroe figures it’s time for a break.

He’s not a complete asshole. Or he is, but in the same ways Monroe’s an asshole. They have a lot in common so far as Big Ideas go.

Monroe might actually like him under other circumstances—the current circumstances being that he killed the guy who had this job a few weeks ago.

 

**===**

 

Today’s the day, but it turns out Monroe didn’t have to worry half so much as they did because Cait’s the one who says it.

“I’m... scared. I’m scared this shite’s gonna kill me.”

Monroe doesn’t say _Me too, Caity._ They just ask, “What do you wanna do?”

 

**===**

 

Mason doesn’t want Monroe running off to some fucking vault before the goddamn park’s even cleared and if Monroe was in his place, that’s what they’d think too.

But Monroe’s the goddamn Overboss and Mason is a lapdog.

So Monroe reminds him and every other member of the Pack. It involves rope and some stocks and a few guns.

“Clean this shit up, and maybe you’ll get a treat when I get back.”

It’s not about embarrassment. It’s not even about being pissed off ‘cause Mason’s throwing a tantrum. It’s about control, like everything else. Mason’s alive and no worse for wear. Same can’t be said for some of his whelps, but that’s not really Monroe’s problem.

For the next few days, it’s Gage’s problem. And that makes them smile a little.

 

**===**

 

Once the vault’s clear, Monroe takes a minute to think back. Hard to imagine it now: Designation E4-67 cowering in the bio wing when some puffed up scientist threatens a mem wipe because it dropped a planter.

Hard to even imagine those first few weeks when fighting was unfamiliar, when killing seemed like something far away and... difficult.

Hard to keep thinking about that—about anything—while Caity’s in that chair, shaking and sweating and swearing from the pain of an all-at-once withdrawal.

Monroe doesn’t really think this is gonna work, but if Cait thinks it will, that’s enough for now. If it helps, it helps. And when Cait needs something else later—a drink or a locked door or somebody to punch or somewhere hide to somebody who... well Monroe doesn’t know shit about “curing” addiction but they know fighting and they know Cait.

 

**===**

 

The Courser finally comes.

A few miles outside the park, it catches them. Monroe recognizes it, doesn’t know its designation, its “name,” but they remember seeing it walking around sometimes.

Goddamn but what could they do with a Courser on their side? What could synths do if they didn’t have to fight their own along with fighting everything and everybody else?

It gives Monroe one chance to come back peacefully. Monroe decides to give it one chance to be something else—something _more._ One chance to choose a name over a goddamn number, one chance to shed all that goddamn brainwashing, one chance to fight the thing it _should_ be fighting.

You can’t undo the kind of shit the Institute does in one tense conversation though, so neither of them take those chances.

It’s got a recall code, but Monroe’s got a shotgun. Can’t talk if its skull is full of buckshot and plasma.

“You ok?” Cait asks.

Monroe shrugs. Woulda been nice, having a Courser, but they can’t afford to have regrets. End of the day, Coursers ain’t no different than that first scrawny kid Tommy shoved at them in the ring. Dead’s dead and Monroe’s not dead.

 

**===**

 

Gage actually isn’t that bad.

Mason’s cleaned up and calmed down. The word around the park is that anybody stupid enough to give Cait a hit is gonna run the gauntlet. He even cleared those creepy fucking mannequins out of Fizztop.

Cait spends a couple days sleeping off that bullshit “cure” while Monroe and Gage finish up in Kiddie Park Hell. It’s a lot easier once they shut down those damn misters.

Afterward, the two of them have some beers on the roof of the castle. Gage makes some jokes about clowns. Monroe laughs, not because he’s funny but because he’s obviously making an effort and aside from Caity, that’s not something Monroe’s used to getting from people.

 

**===**

 

There’s a moment, when Redeye announces that the park’s clear, when Monroe just stands by the windows of Fizztop and breathes.

Caity’s on one side, still a little unsteady, still a little too pale and thin, but she’s eating more today. She’s grinning. And Gage is on the other side, arms crossed over his chest and Monroe still doesn’t completely trust him, but they’re getting there. Maybe.

It’s nice, to have people on their side for once.

And all this—it’s theirs. They’ve got the people, got the territory, got the power. Monroe is finally, _finally_ in control.


End file.
